Poor Child, or What Really Happened to Mary Sue
by Illwynd
Summary: The problem of going to Middle earth is that you never know when you'll wind up.


Title: Poor Child, or What Really Happened to Mary Sue  
Author: illwynd  
Disclaimer: Not mine!  
Rating: PG  
Summary: The problem of going to Middle-earth is that you never know _when_ you'll wind up.

"Poor child," the healer said, looking over his new charge "where did you say she was found?"

"Out in the fields. One of the farmers found her. She was lucky, for he said he fears no plague after his own children perished of it months ago, leaving him untouched. Many would have left her there…"

"Aye, lucky she was. Not that I think her chances are very good, but at least she will be comfortable now." He looked down at the scrawny thing bundled up on the bed. She looked half-starved, her pale cheeks were hollow, and her long hair was in tangles. They had removed her muddy, strangely-tailored clothes and put her in a light shift before they had laid her on the bed. Now she slept, but when she had first been brought, she had babbled weakly in some strange tongue.

_"Where am I? Isn't this Middle-earth? Why do I feel so awful?"_

He felt bad that there wasn't much he could do for her that hadn't already been done, but that was his lot during this year of plague, and there were many others to tend to.

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A young woman, once a healer's daughter and now an orphan, brought broth to all the sick who had found their way to the guesthouse on the first level of the city, which was being used as a quarantine area. The house was quiet aside from the occasional faint moan of the afflicted. She made her way to the last bed in the row, where a young girl lay with wide, frightened eyes.

"Here is some broth, child. Are you well enough to drink? It will help you keep some strength."

The girl struggled to sit up in bed, then sank back to the pillows and looked at the young woman standing over her. _"Who are you? Won't somebody tell me where I am? I want to go home! I need a doctor…"_

Of the few healers and other assistants who cared for the people in this house, none could make sense of her strange talk –perhaps just fevered babble and not language at all, they deemed— and no others would dare to enter this place if they could avoid it. The healer's aide looked kindly at the girl, and spoke in a comforting tone, "I wish I could understand your speech. If we knew where you had come from, we could try to send some word to your family… Ah well. Perhaps it is just the fever, and you will remember when you get well." Even if the girl didn't understand her, she disliked lying to her. It was not likely that the girl would recover. So few of the afflicted ever did.

The girl let her ladle a few sips of broth into her mouth, then turned away from her and curled up on her side. She placed the bowl where the girl could reach it easily, and stood up to continue her rounds.

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The girl lay abed, too weak to move, and her mind wandered in strange waking dreams. She dreamed of being warm. Even though a fire crackled on the far side of the room, and the fever raged in her, and blankets were heavy on her limbs, she never felt warm anymore. She thought of home, and her thoughts were scattered with dimly-remembered images of her parents and her brother and her little sister, of her grandparents, and all her friends. She dreamed of her room… she couldn't remember what it looked like, but she remembered that she was always comfortable there, and that it had nice things in it. She tried to remember how she had gotten here, to this tiny bed in a room filled with sick-people smells and noises. She remembered being very happy over… something… just days ago. A journey, was that right? She remembered thinking how much she would have to tell everyone here, and all the wonderful things she would do, and how jealous her friends would be when she got home… she was going to save someone, wasn't she? She tried to remember, but it was like trying to capture starlight in a bottle.

Starlight in a bottle? …starlight in a glass? The image seemed familiar but she couldn't place it.

She racked her brain, trying to remember what had happened, after she had been so happy. Something bad must have happened, but what? The next thing she remembered was walking into a little village where no one understood her. She remembered trying to talk to people, and getting frustrated nearly to tears. She remembered thinking that there was something very wrong about everything. She had felt so alone. And then she remembered walking more, she didn't remember for how long, and then feeling ill and lying down to sleep in a field… and then being here. Nothing seemed clear anymore, and she tried desperately to remember what her mother looked like, before coughing weakly and falling into a restless sleep.

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After several days, the girl at the end of the row of beds had stopped babbling in that strange tongue, and had lain silent. Only hours before she perished, she had spoken, clearly but weakly, in the common tongue.

"Am I dying? I am scared…"

The healer's assistant had answered, trying not to let her face show her worry. "Do not be afraid… you may get well. What is your name? Where is your family?"

The girl on the bed had started to weep. "I don't know!" she had said, and it was clear she was answering both questions. The healer's assistant had gently tried to ask more questions, but the girl fell back into sleep, breathing shallowly, and spoke no more.

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Not far from the wall, the many mounded graves lay, their stark shadows stretching out over empty fields in the morning sunlight. The young healer's-assistant didn't have much time to come to visit them, for many were still ill and needed tending, but she felt it was her duty. One who lay here had no one else to mourn her; a nameless child fallen to the plague. Mayhap, she thought, the girl's family had all perished before her, and loss and illness had scoured them and all else from her memory? Whatever had happened to her, no one would ever know it. This one poor child… the healer's assistant stared out over the shadows, into the far distance, and she shuddered. It was as if… as if she could see this place, these graves, fading into the past, utterly forgotten. The young woman tried to capture this vision, to make sense of it… but it was gone. She blinked away the moisture from her eyes and walked slowly back to the House of the Dying.

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Scribe's Note:

Despite the dubious nature of this story, it is left in this history for the sake of completeness, for little enough information about the plague years has survived. According to the tale as it was recorded ages ago, Mary Sue Sperling perished in T.A. 1636, during Urimë. Before her clothes were burned, a piece of paper was found in a pocket. The strange letters on it were recorded along with the rest of this tale, and left for historians to ponder. From this we know her name. From the description of her youth and her strange clothes, it is likely that her year of birth was near 1990 A.D. However, diligent search of current records has turned up no record of the disappearance of a Mary Sue Sperling, nor any evidence that this person ever existed. This scribe finds it is more likely that the healer's assistant's speculation was correct, but, as in so many other ancient tales of lore, it is likely we will never know the truth of the matter. Readers may judge for themselves.

-end-


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